Page 27 of Wedge

“Someone spiked your drink. Stephen and I brought you here.”

I groan. “Fuuuck. Never been roofied before. Why do people do this? I feel awful and can’t remember shit. Just dancing, then… I do anything really bad?”

“Danced your ass off. Kissed Stephen. That’s all.”

My head jerks up and, fuck, I regret that. Pain spikes through my eyeballs.

“I kissed Stephen. Fuck.” The memory flashes. Warm, soft, tastes of beer.

“And gave him a hickey,” Caleb giggles. “Annnnd called him Daddy.”

“Oh, shit,” I groan, hand over my face. “Where is he?”

“Went to get you breakfast. He sat in that chair all night, A. Wouldn’t sleep. Kept checking you were breathing. Said something about standing watch.”

I get a whiff of myself. “Jesus, I stink. Can I shower? Please?”

“Sure thing, babe. Can loan you some stuff, too. Yours is rank.”

“You are so awesome, Caleb.”

“I know,” he laughs.

Caleb’s clothes are clean, but tiny on me. He loaned me a tank top with low scooped sides because my shoulders are way bigger than his and he didn’t think anything else would fit over my biceps. The shorts are almost illegal. At least they are black.

When I come out, Stephen is there with coffee, just how I like it. Lots of cream and sugar. And he has bagels, everything bagels bulging with cream cheese. His eyes are rimmed in red, and he is wearing the same rumpled shirt as last night. I spot the hickey right under his ear, Jesus fuck. He glances down at Caleb’s clothes, then his eyes are glued to mine. I stand in the doorway, unsure what to say.

“Um, thank you. For. You know, getting me out of there,” I stammer. He watches without comment, as though waiting to see what version of me he has. “And. Fuck, sorry about getting weird on you. Never been drunk before.”

He sets his coffee down. “How’s the head?”

“Hurts.”

“It will for a while.” He nods at the chair across from him. “Sit. Eat something.” I sit. He waits until I’ve picked up a bagel. “And Adrian. You weren’t drunk. Somebody drugged you. Whatever happened after that is on him. Not you. Nothing to be sorry for.”

I huff a breath. “But I…”

“We’ll talk about the rest when your head’s clear. Not today.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off mine until I’ve finished the bagel.

“Caleb, can you get him home? I’ve been up all night. I’m no good behind the wheel.”

“Can do, boss!” he says with a mock salute.

He turns back to me. “Today you hydrate, you sleep, you do nothing. Keystone’s Monday. I’ll pick you up at noon tomorrow.” A beat. “If you’re not right by then, we skip it. No qualifier’s worth it.”

I nod, slowly. My head is a piñata.

He said we’ll talk about the rest. Not that there isn’t any. That’s good, right?

Keystone Ranch is a mix of terrain. The front nine is open and windy, sage meadows rolling out in every direction, ponds full of geese that lift off in noisy clouds whenever a ball gets too close. The back nine cuts into lodgepole pines and climbs toward the mountains, with an old ranch house sitting at the center of it all.

“This says this is old ranch land,” Stephen says, reading it off some pamphlet from the pro shop while we wait for our tee time. “That building’s the original homestead. Now it’s the clubhouse.”

“Cool history lesson. Does it help my swing?”

“Nope. But I sounded smart for a minute.” He tucks the pamphlet back into the rack. “Ready?”